


Glas

by Ariejul



Series: Alone in the Fallout [28]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, F/M, First Meetings, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariejul/pseuds/Ariejul
Summary: Glas: colors ranging from green to blue (of grass, trees, sea, eye color, etc.) to various shades of gray (of sword, sheep, wool, cloth, etc.)Barbara and Deacon, and how their worlds collide.Pre-game.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a set of screenshots I posted to my[ tumblr.](https://ariejul.tumblr.com/post/165926951238/d-drop-the-gun-nice-and-slow-or-what-lady)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Comments/kudos are welcome and loved to pieces!

She’s been watching him for weeks, picking apart his routines and habits with fascination. Farming isn’t a profession she knows much about, but it strikes her as odd, him being so young but living alone. He’s alert and wary at least - _has to be_ \- but he’s never noticed her. She’s always been quiet and nimble on her feet.

The ancient Stealth Boy she has certainly helps, even if it only works half the time. It’s likely a prototype model since the tech is garbage, but it’s gotten her out of tight spots before. As long as she’s careful, snagging the occasional tato or ear of corn from his fields is a simple affair. She’s certainly still hungry, but the sensation is more of an ache now than overwhelming force gnawing away at her innards.

In truth, she isn’t sure why she bothers watching him anymore. His schedule’s gospel to her now, as easily remembered as her own name. He rarely deviates, but even so, she finds herself sneaking to the edges of the treeline, into the high grasses, eyes following him as he toils in his fields. There’s something calming about it, his movements graceful. The work is tedious, trying, but he always seems so satisfied.

He might be a stranger, but she likes his smile and the way his hair glints like fire in the midday sun.

 

The 10mm pistol is heavy in her hands, fingers slick with blood as she hobbles from the trees. Her vision blurs, thoughts shifting, attempting to puncture the fog of her mind. The scavenger and his dog’s attack had surprised her. She’d barely been able to defend herself. Their dying screams still echo in her ears, and bile rises in her throat. She’s never killed anyone before.

Her body aches, blood leaking from the wounds in her chest and shoulder. She just… she has to get to the small shack off to the side of her farmer’s property. He keeps a first aid kit there. If she can wrap up her wounds or find a stimpak… then maybe she can… maybe she won’t –

Her feet tangle in something unseen in the night, and the ground rushes to meet her. Groaning, she stands and fumbles in the dark to reclaim her weapon, staggering finally to her goal. Her fingers smear red against the white of the kit’s box, clumsily wrenching it open. The fabric of her ruined shirt rips away the clotting blood of her wounds; she grits her teeth to keep from crying out. It’s early enough that he isn’t awake yet, but she can’t press her luck. Not like this. People have killed for less, and she can’t trust that he wouldn’t.

She can barely focus by the time her torso is bound, vision spinning violently. There wasn’t a stim in the kit, not that she really expected one. They’re rare and expensive; not something a farmer would have. Even if he _did,_ it wouldn’t be left out in a glorified shed.

The sun is already up by the time she comes back to herself. If memory serves, the farmer – _she doesn’t even know his_ name – is out in his fields. Has been for hours. The fields have a clear view of the shed door. Creeping to the entrance, cursing with every groan of the wood floor, she slowly leans out. There is no way she can make it back to the treeline without being seen. She’s going to have to confront him. With a grimace, she shakes back the fog creeping in. _Focus._

Her fingers curl tight around the grip of her pistol. She doesn’t want to kill him; she doesn’t want to kill _anyone._ She just wants to live. The farmer’s head snaps up, and he pulls his own pistol from its place at his side. Her breath freezes in her chest as he wanders ever closer to her hiding place. She’s _shaking,_ pulse thrumming noisily in her ears. He stops just shy of seeing her, wary gaze scanning for signs of trouble. A few agonizingly long moments later, his weapon drops to his side. When his back turns toward her, she makes her move.

With as much intimidation as she can manage bruised and bloodied as she is, she exits and points her pistol at him. The quake of her arm is barely visible as she pushes back the image of his face covered in blood. “D-drop the gun, nice and slow.”

The man turns, face apathetic. “Or what, lady? You gonna shoot me?” He isn’t surprised to see her, and that is _terrifying._

She gapes before coming back to herself, resolve solidifying, shaking her gun at him. “I _will.”_

One corner of his mouth quirks up briefly, mockingly. “Sure you will. You here to rob me?”

Quickly, she shakes her head, relief blossoming through her that he isn’t advancing, isn’t attacking. It wouldn’t be hard to overpower her, injuries not withstanding, and from the look he’s giving her, he knows it. “No. I don't want any trouble. I just… want to leave.”

He huffs through his nose, possibly in amusement. She doesn’t know. His eyes haven’t left her. They’re _blue_ , and it’s suddenly all she can think about. “What’s stopping you?”

It's all she needs. Backing away slowly, stumbling over her own feet, she slips from him and into the trees. He could be chasing her for all she knows; she doesn’t dare look back. Her feet don't stop moving for what feels like _hours_ , until her heart is hammering against her ribs and she can’t _breathe_ against the burning in her lungs. The pistol slips from her limp fingers. Her bandages are soaked red, and she collapses against a tree into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Back with more Barbara and Deacon goodness. :D
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Comments/kudos are loved!

When she wakes, there’s the clinical smell of antiseptic in the air, and fear claws its way up the back of her throat. It’s not a fear she understands, but it’s always been there at the back of her mind. She has to get away. She has to move. She has to –

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice calls from somewhere close. A male voice. The fog clouding her mind makes it difficult to place, though she’s certain it’s a voice she knows. “Gonna rip your stitches.”

 _Stitches?_ Her eyes finally open to find a warm fire and a man across it. A man with fire flickering in his hair and the sea dancing in his eyes. Her farmer. But why is he here? The last thing she remembers was… _oh._ Oh _no._ She sits up with reckless abandon, her head spinning violently for the trouble. It makes her want to retch, but she _has_ to get away from here. Too bad her body isn’t listening to her.

“Lady, I dunno what you’re running from, but you aren’t going to get far in your condition.” When she looks back at him, he’s watching with apathetic eyes. Cold, like the unforgiving tides of the sea. “You’re lucky I followed you.”

She panics at that, fearful of him though he makes no move toward her. He’s idly stirring a pot of something on the fire. Soup, by the smell. It makes her stomach complain at the lack of food in it and the anticipation of food incoming. Curling in on herself, she watches him warily. No one’s ever helped her before. “Why?” she croaks, throat parched and aching.

He’s startled by her voice, an easy grin slipping onto his face moments later. “What can I say? Got a soft spot for pretty dames.” When he notices her poor reaction to the words, he continues. “It was just a joke, lady. Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Her brows furrow. She always thought he was peculiar, but he’s acting downright _strange._ Why would he help without wanting anything in return? He _has_ to want something. “I can’t… I don’t have any money.”

His brows raise at that, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Guess that’s why you’ve been nicking food from my fields.”

Her blood turns to ice, and she suddenly can’t breathe. He _kn_ _o_ _w_ _s_ _._ He’s been _toying_ with her. What if he takes her captive? Makes her a slave? What if he _sells_ her? What if he does _worse?_ Her fingers curl into fists, ripping up grass by its roots. _Deep breaths._ _Calm down. Think._ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He huffs a laugh but doesn’t press the issue. Stirring his culinary concoction once more, he produces a chipped cup and pours soup into it before moving toward her. She tries to scurry away and jostles her injuries, a keening cry slipping from her lips before she can stop it. He stills and doesn’t come any closer. “Easy, tiger. Just thought you might be hungry.” When she makes no move to take the offered cup, he sighs, sipping from it. “Look, it’s not poisoned. I ain’t in the business of patching up people I want dead. C’mon, take it.”

It does smell good, and she’s famished. Gingerly, she reaches out to take it, nearly dropping it as her arms tremble. Her eyes never leave him, the gears of her mind whirling with all the possible motives he might have. There’s no way he’s doing this as a kindness. People don’t do that in the Commonwealth. People only know how to take and maim and destroy. There is no mercy here. There’s none anywhere. “What do you want from me?”

He shrugs at that, returning to his seat, and finally she can relax. The soup, when she brings herself to taste it, is quite good. Better than anything she’s had in a very long time. Possibly ever. “Gotta say, I _am_ kinda curious what you’re doin’ out here alone. Why you been watching me for nearly a month.”

She sputters, soup spewing from her lips. The cup slips from her fingers, dumping its contents onto the ground at her feet, but she doesn’t care. Staggering shakily to her feet, she backpedals with eyes blown wide. How did he know? She was _careful._ No one’s ever caught her before. Why would he let her…? “I have to… I gotta go!” She scurries away, feet scrabbling for purchase and mind reeling. She has to _get away._

She can hear him following – _gaining_ _–_ and she screams when strong arms snag her from behind. “ _Letmego_ _l_ _etmegoletmeGO!_ ” she wails, fighting with everything she has against him, but his grip is firm. She’s done for. He’s going to take her, hurt her, and she’ll never even be _missed_ by anyone.

“L-lady,” he grunts, fighting as she thrashes and pounds against his arms, “stop – _squirming_ _–_ dammit!”

She finally manages to land a hard kick to his shin, and he drops her with a yelp. But what strength she had is gone. She collapses, legs little better than jelly, but she refuses to give up. Crawling across the ground, she tries desperately to get away from him. She _has_ to escape. _They’ll catch her. They’ll find her. She can’t go back!_

He sighs heavily above her, wheezing slightly. “Are you done yet?”

“ _No!”_ she snaps, still crawling away. Her chest is on fire, and she’s almost positive she’s bleeding but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is living. Being _free._ It’s all that’s ever mattered. “I won’t let you take me!”

“Lady,” he moans, sounding thoroughly done with the entire situation, “I don’t wanna take you _anywhere._ I just don’t think it’s right lettin’ a dame die alone out in the wilderness.”

She cranes her head around to look at him; he’s rubbing his forehead in irritation. The sun’s cutting through the trees, shining on the wide strip of hair on top of his head. When he moves, it dances like fire. There’s fresh blood all over his arms. It must be hers. “Why would you help me?” Tears prick her eyes, sliding uselessly down her face.

“Would you prefer I _didn’t?”_ He hikes a thumb back the way they came. “I can go. If you wanna die, by all means, don’t let me stop you. Got better ways to spend my time.”

Unadulterated panic seizes her, a sob crawling from her throat. “ _No!_ I – I don’t want to die! Please. _Please.”_ She hears herself begging, feels disgusted, but she can’t stop. She can’t die.

“Then quit freaking out when I’m _trying_ to help you. Jeez.” He approaches her, and she pushes down the urge to flinch away. He scoops her up, mindful of her injuries and heads back the way they came. The amount of time it takes to get back to their little camp is embarrassingly short.

After setting her down, he starts to clinically poke at her, assessing the damage her escapade caused. Turning away, she clenches her eyes shut. Fear prickles across her skin like goosebumps, but she suffers through it. Her head spins, and she leans back against the tree behind her, thankful it’s there.

“You still with me?”

Her eyes crack open. It’s so _bright,_ and she’s so tired. “Yeah,” she slurs softly, pupils dancing. It’s difficult to focus.

His hands leave her, and she misses the warmth immediately. “Hey, what’s your name?”

Blinking owlishly, she studies his face as it fades in and out of focus. “I-it’s Barbara,” she manages, swallowing heavily.

He grins at that, and it’s so much nicer up close, like the sun’s warmth condensed into a single, tiny expression. “Well, Barbs, I’m Ryan. Just stay with me a little longer, alright?”

She nods, voice stoppered in her throat. Her eyelids are like lead weights, nearly impossible to keep open. She jerks when his hands grab her face, his eyes inches from hers.

“Gotta stay awake, sugar.” He pats her face, but it’s more comforting than anything.

Barbara swallows, slipping further away. “N-not… your… sugar.”

The last thing she remembers before blackness reaches out and claims her is her farmer - _Ryan -_ yelling her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Screenshots based on this chapter are here on my [ tumblr.](https://ariejul.tumblr.com/post/166087826408/lady-i-dunno-what-youre-running-from-but-you)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara wakes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> I've had this chapter in the works for a while, I just sorta stalled on it. It's definitely interesting writing both Barbara and Deacon when he's young. Barb will eventually *not* be injured.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Comments/kudos are always appreciated!

The next time she wakes, she’s somewhere soft and warm. Her thoughts are hazy, but Barbara knows she shouldn’t feel like that. Something’s _wrong._ Terror lances through her core, eyes snapping open and darting around.

She’s in a bed, tucked into the corner of a small room with wooden walls and floor. There’s a mended, well cared for comforter draped over her body. That explains the warmth she feels, but… where _is_ she? Arms trembling, she swipes at her face. Sharp pain lances through her chest, and she gasps.

The door opens, her eyes snapping toward it. Her farmer is there, lips crooked into a grin. “You’re awake.”

She tenses, griping the comforter tightly in her hands. “Where am I?” she demands, glaring at him and hoping it’s enough to keep him away. Her chest is screaming, but she ignores it.

His grin drops into a frown, and he sighs. “We gonna do this same old song and dance again, lady?” He gestures around the room, toward the bed she’s in. “Look, you’re in my home. Did you forget what happened in the woods?”

Barbara thinks, but the memories are foggy. She remembers running, screaming, blood. A name, Ryan, and worried eyes that remind her of the sea. Her brows furrow together as she looks back up at him. “You… helped me.”

He nods, and she realizes he has a first aid kit in his hands. “Yeah. You were in a bad way. Thought you weren’t gonna make it for a while.”

Barbara flushes, a new sort of fear washing over her. She nearly _died?_ Glancing back toward him, she wonders if he’s lying. Does he have a reason? She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t like it. Studying his face, she finds that her farmer is impossible to read. “You saved me?”

Her farmer nods again, walking cautiously toward her. She keeps herself from reacting though just barely. It’s the least she can do. “Wondering if I could check your wounds and change your bandages. Can you sit up?”

She truly does try to sit up, but her body’s too weak. She collapses after rising barely an inch, head hitting her pillow heavily. Clenching her eyes shut, she turns away from him and pushes back tears at her own uselessness. She’s never been so helpless before, and that’s terrifying. “I…” Her mouth snaps closed, unable to voice her own weakness.

His voice is soft. “Lemme help.” He moves toward her, but he doesn’t touch her until she gives her assent. His arms are warm against her back, gently lifting her into a sitting position. She can feel the definition of his muscles, the strength earned from a farmer’s lifestyle. She trembles at the thought of how easily he could hurt her. It’s cold comfort that he hasn’t. “Easy now. Steady.”

She wobbles in place, his hand steadying her as he gets his supplies and puts them on the bed. His voice is soothing; she’d never heard it before they met but likes the way it sounds. She stares at her hands, the heat of his fingers seeping into her. “Thank you,” she murmurs softly, cautiously.

A hint of color rises on his cheeks before he turns away, busying himself with retrieving clean bandages when he’s sure she won’t fall over. “Yeah, sure. No problem. Hey, uh, I’m gonna have to…” He gestures toward her bandages and chest. “I don’t mean nothin’ by it, but I didn’t want you thinkin’ otherwise.”

Barbara cocks her head to the side, eyes widening when she realizes what he means. Terror lights along her nerves, and she can’t stop her trembling. Balling her hands into fists, she stares at her lap. “Oh. Um. Just… just get it over with.” She sucks in a breath when his fingers touch her.

“Yeah,” he replies, carefully unwinding her bandages. His hands are nimble and quick, and he’s careful not to touch her skin or let his eyes wander. Barbara’s grateful for that, at least, even if she has to force herself not to flinch every time he moves closer. The smell of antiseptic fills her nose, and she shivers. By the end, her eyes are clenched tightly closed. “Done,” he says, satisfied, and moves away from her.

Barbara can finally breathe again. She wavers in place, cautiously eyeing him. Her chest is screaming at her, but she tries her best to ignore it. “Your name… it’s Ryan, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he grins, putting his medical supplies away. “And you’re Barbara. Didn’t want to say it until you brought it up. Not keen on having to patch you up after you spooked again.” He studies her for a moment before pulling out a syringe.

Barbara balks at that, wavering away from him and hissing from the pain. She doesn’t want to be put to sleep, can’t stand the thought of being out of control anymore than she already is. He could hurt her. It’s still possible. All he needs is the opportunity and she’s _done_ for –

He stops when he notices her reaction. “Hey,” he murmurs, gesturing reassuringly. “It’s alright. You’re in pain, aren’t you? This is Med-X. It’ll help.”

Her breath comes in short pants, pupils blown wide as that same unknown terror washes over her. Flashes of white, clinical rooms bubble up to her consciousness that she tries desperately to blink away. Her mouth works soundlessly, trying to articulate _something._ Wet leaks from her eyes, and she hates it.

Ryan sets the capped syringe down and hesitantly reaches out to stroke her hair. She flinches at first contact, but after a moment, eases into the touch. It’s kind and warm, and she can breathe. “I won’t give you enough to knock you out. Just a little to dull the pain. Is that okay?”

Shakily exhaling, she opens her eyes and nods, watching as the needle pricks her arm. There’s a rush of warmth in her veins, and her chest loosens, pain easing like an errant breeze. Once the syringe is gone, the last of the unexplained terror fades.

“Why are you helping me?”

He shrugs, looking away from her. “Seemed like you needed it. Hungry?”

Barbara’s stomach growls angrily in response. “I… um, yes.”

Ryan laughs. “As you wish.” He turns to go before stopping. “Let’s get you laying back down. Be a shame if you fell over while I was gone.”

“O – okay.” Nodding, she lets him help her, the press of his arms across her skin strange and pleasant in varying degrees. Her heart won’t quit pounding, an echoing cacophony in her ears. It’s so loud she fears he might hear it.

He leaves and returns in quick measure, another bowl of soup in hand. Taking the chair sitting by the bed, he dips a spoonful and blows away the heat before offering it to her. Barbara frowns, ire rising at how he’s treating her. “I’m not a _child_ ,” she snaps, turning away from his offering.

“Never said you were,” he replies mildly, placing the spoon back in the bowl. “Barbs, you’re injured and weak. Do you want to scald yourself with hot soup?”

The nickname grates on her nerves as she whirls around to glare at him. He’s closer than she expected and jerks back, keening when her injuries protest. She ignores the flash of sorrow that lights his pale eyes, and the way it makes her chest hum. With a sigh, she acquiesces, silently opening her mouth.

Her farmer – _Ryan,_ she tells herself – seems pleased, and dutifully feeds her until she can’t take another bite. The food was delicious, filling her stomach with gentle warmth. He's so patient with her, far more than he should be, and Barbara has to admit, she’s intrigued by him as much as she is frightened. He has no true reason to care about her that she can fathom, and the thought itches in the back of her mind. She wants to understand.

Setting the bowl down on the small table beside the bed, he watches her with sharp eyes, and Barbara has to force herself not to shrink away. Ryan’s brows furrow. “Am I that scary?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

She flinches, eyes the size of saucers, and sheepishly glances his way. Her fingers curl in the comforter, aimlessly fidgeting. “I don’t…” How can she explain it to him, this mindless fear that has always clawed at the back of her thoughts? That it has little to do with him, and more to do with the fact that he is a terrifying unknown? “No. _No._ I just… I’ve been alone for… a long time.” She brushes a lock of hair back that’s fallen in her face, not daring to look at him.

He huffs a sigh, rubbing his knees. “Well, you aren’t now. So, try to relax. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” When her wide eyes swivel toward him, he grins, and Barbara decides that she likes the way it makes him look. “I know it’s just words and those mean squat, but I’ll prove it to you. Just you wait.” He rises then, taking the empty bowl. “Get some rest. I’ll come check on you later.”

And with that, Ryan is gone, and Barbara watches where he disappeared through the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Barbara heals, she learns more about her farmer.

It’s been several weeks since Barbara first woke in her farmer’s home, and they’ve fallen into a steady rhythm. Every morning, Ryan brings her breakfast and changes her bandages before heading out to tend the fields. Each meal he spends with her, fussing until she’s finished.

As her strength grew, she expected the routine to change, but surprisingly enough, it hasn’t. In fact, he’s recently taken to reading aloud in the evening, and Barbara finds comfort in the soothing lilt of his voice, often slipping into sleep.

Aside from being bedridden and injured, these weeks have been pleasant, and though he’s had ample opportunity, he’s never done anything untoward. Changing her bandages is quite the intimate affair, considering their placement, but his touch has never strayed. She hasn’t forgotten that if he wanted to hurt her – _or worse –_ Barbara wouldn’t be able to fight against him. The terror such thoughts bring has waned, but it lingers like stagnant air, occasionally rearing its head during their time together.

It pains her, seeing the flicker of melancholy in his eyes when she flinches away from his touch.

As grateful as she is for his continuing kindness, she can’t help wondering when he’s going to ask for some sort of payment. Her care takes up a great deal of his time and effort. Both she knows he ought to spend elsewhere. A farm doesn’t tend itself, and he’s the only able body here.

Ryan never complains, but Barbara can tell the weight of it is wearing him thin.

He’s grown clumsier as the days have passed and always seems disheveled. Though he’s attempted to hide such things, Barbara can tell something isn’t quite right. It worries her, but she hasn’t had the nerve to ask. Part of her fears what he might say.

She has no money, nothing of worth to her name. Well, except maybe her Stealth Boy, but a farmer would have no use for such a trinket outside of selling it. Besides, she hasn’t seen it since she woke, so it could be gone for all she knows. She wouldn’t blame him if he sold it. Her medical supplies must be quite the expense.

In spite of her best efforts, it’s an easy thing, letting her mind wander to all the different sorts of “payment” he might demand, each more horrible than the last. Barbara isn’t naive enough not to realize her body could easily be the price he asks.

A shiver slides down her spine at the thought.

“Mornin’,” her farmer greets, opening the door with more bravado than necessary. He’s taken to making a show of entering, and Barbara is grateful. His movements are naturally quiet, even in this new clumsy state, and he frightened her so badly a few days ago he ended up scalded with hot soup.

Barbara eyes his arms, still red and raw from the incident, and her chest constricts painfully. Because of her, he got hurt. She doesn’t understand why he cares and blinks away the sharp burn pressing against her eyes.

His eyes widen when he notices she’s sitting up in bed. The corners of his mouth slip up into a grin that lights his entire face. It wanes slightly when the med kit in his hands brushes against irritated skin, but he does his best to hide it. “Look at you. Sittin’ up by yourself.”

She blushes, the praise throwing her off kilter. Her eyes drop to the comforter, idly fingering a loose thread as guilt simmers in her chest. “Did you sleep well?”

He chuckles, walking over and sitting the kit down on the bed. His knuckles carelessly brush against her covered thigh, and she manages not to flinch. “Like a baby.” Popping open the lid, he readies his supplies. “Ready?”

Barbara eyes him steadily, noticing the continuing differences in his behavior. It’s been almost a week since she first started to see those changes, and they are only growing worse. She studies the way his hands tremble slightly and the darkness hollowing under his eyes. There’s a sickly pallor to his already pale complexion, the strange sheen on his brow making him look feverish.

At first, she thought it might just be the heat or fatigue – or _worse,_ the injury she caused – but it’s progressing at an alarming rate. 

Stiltedly, she reaches out and grabs his hand, careful to avoid inflamed skin. She nearly recoils at how clammy he feels to the touch. His eyes, blown wide and hazy like a stormy sky, shoot toward her. Belatedly, she realizes this is the first time she’s willingly touched him. Swallowing heavily, she steels her resolve. “You… you’re lying to me,” she murmurs softly.

His mouth works silently at that before he licks his lips, gaze dropping guiltily away. He yanks roughly from her grasp, hissing when his arm smacks against his clothes. “Not sure what you’re talkin’ about, _sugar_ .” The pet name rolls off his tongue like a curse, unfriendly and _bitter_. It momentarily stoppers her breath.

Everything inside her is screaming to back off, but she can’t. Something is _wrong,_ and she refuses to stand idly by _._ She forces the words from her lips, determined to take care of him the same way he has her. “You aren’t well. You’ve been different for _days_ , and I’m worried. If you need better rest, I can sleep on the floor. _Please_. I don’t… I’ve been enough trouble as it is.”

His lips twist into a sudden snarl, and she shrinks back in spite of herself when his hands ball into fists. “Listen, I don’t need no _dame_ tellin’ me what’s what.” His hands – _shaking like leaves battered by the breeze –_ slam the box closed, and he jerks from his seat so quickly the chair overturns. He nearly loses his balance staggering away, and Barbara shrieks when the door slams.

Eyes wide, she replays the conversation over in her head, thoughts a cacophony. She shouldn’t have mentioned it. She shouldn’t have pushed. She shouldn’t have –

_Idiot. You were too forceful. You aren’t his keeper. You aren’t_ anything _but a burden_. _You even managed to hurt him._

Wringing her hands in the comforter, Barbara tries to hold back the waves of terror pushing in. Her heart quakes in her chest, breath ragged and uneven. If he kicks her out now, she has nowhere to go. No food. No clothes. No _hope._ She can’t possibly fend for herself like this.

Wet drips onto her hands, and she realizes she’s crying. The dam breaks, and ugly sobs slip past her lips that she can’t stop. Slapping a hand over her mouth, fearful he’ll come back, she cries herself to sleep. Nightmares of a place she cannot recall haunt her slumber.

With morning comes unease as Barbara waits for a visit from Ryan. She’d spent every waking moment replaying the events of yesterday over, and though his actions still frighten her, Barbara is certain she’s right. Something is wrong. She’s determined to discover what – and if it’s _her fault –_ resolving not to be driven back by his anger again.

As the sun rises in the sky, panic takes hold. Her farmer is overdue. He’s never been this late.

Swallowing heavily, she crawls slowly from the bed, legs nearly buckling beneath her. Gripping the headboard, she staggers toward the door using the wall for support. Her legs are heavy and unwieldy from disuse, and her chest is screaming, but she has to find him. She has to know what’s happened to make him act this way.

Something about his behavior tickles her thoughts. Something locked in the haze of _before_ , slipping away when she tries to focus on it. All she knows is that her farmer is in trouble, and she is the only one he has to help.

Nearly falling through the door, she’s greeted with a common area in complete disarray. Clothes draped over nearly every surface, bits of garbage and medical supplies scattered around. She staggers, eyes bulging when she realizes the coffee table is covered in liquor bottles and syringes. There are so _many._ Covering a gasp with her hand, she hobbles over to the couch, shakily scrounging through the stash.

They’re all empty, and her farmer is nowhere to be seen. Where could he be? Outside? Wobbling over to the front door, she opens it and scans the fields. From what she can tell, it’s roughly midday, though the darkening overcast skies make it difficult to tell. Even so, his fields are empty. A spear of ice lances her chest. _Where is he?_ Her eyes dart around the room, searching for any signs of life. He wouldn’t have left her alone, would he?

_Would he?_

She nearly trips and falls when she hears a small scuffing sound to her right. Her farmer is huddled and mostly hidden in the only dark corner in the room, shivering and in clear distress. Hobbling over, she eases down to take a closer look.

There’s an empty syringe by his side. Med-x by the look of it, and there’s a fresh prick mark in the bend of his elbow. Hesitantly, her fingers sweep hair back from his face, pressing against his forehead. His brow is slick with sweat, skin somehow both searing and frigid to the touch.

His eyes crack open and dance, glistening like water in sunlight. He has trouble focusing on her, and his pupils are dilated. “B-Barbs?” he drawls softly, fingers brushing against her wrist clumsily. “What… how are you…?”

Her chest tightens, fear welling inside that he might disappear any moment, like a figment of her imagination. “You’re sick,” she whispers softly, voice trembling.

He frowns, gaze dancing away. His hand slides weightlessly from her wrist. “’m fine. Can handle it. J-just… overdid it a lit-little.”

“No,” she says. “ _Please_. I want to help.”

His head drops back against the wall and lolls to the side. For one sickening moment, she’s almost certain he’s died before he swallows roughly. “Ain’t…” he licks his chapped lips, “ain’t no-nothing you can do, sugar. J-just gotta sweat it out.” His lips – their hue a sickly blue – quirk into something resembling a smile, and it breaks Barbara’s heart.

She glances back to the empty liquor bottles and used syringes that can’t possibly all be hers. Her brows furrow, eyes slipping closed with a sigh. “You’re an addict.”

He follows her gaze best he can, and the smile slips away like an errant breeze. His words are clumsy and slurred, resignation heavy in his tone. He shrugs. “O-old habits… die hard.”

“Tell me,” she hears herself say, “tell me what you need. I’ll do it.”

Surprise flickers unbidden in his eyes. His fingers brush against her cheeks. The movement is ungainly, but there’s kindness in the touch. “Don’t cry over me, sugar. I ain’t worth it,” he says breathlessly.

Barbara’s heart seizes at those softly spoken words. They reek of farewell, and she can’t breathe in the face of his absence. “Of _course_ you are.” Her voice cracks along the words. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

He huffs a laugh, though it could barely be called one, hand dropping boneless into his lap. “S-sugar, you don’t know a –” his breath hitches and so does hers, “A damned thing about me.”

“But I want to,” she admits quietly with averted eyes. “Let me help you.”

Silence lingers, and Barbara’s mind runs wild with the possibilities of what he might say. She doesn’t know what will happen if he rebuffs her. Truthfully, Barbara doesn’t know what she _can_ do to help him. All she knows is that she wants to, more than anything.

“Water,” he finally whispers, gripping her hand with a sudden fierce strength.

It startles her, and she jerks back before she can stop herself. It takes no effort to pull from his grasp.

He blinks heavily, his crooked smile self-deprecating. “Still afraid,” he murmurs with a sigh. “Guess you oughta be.”

Barbara opens her mouth to deny it but realizes she can’t. This Ryan _does_ frighten her, but she can still help. Snapping her mouth shut, she turns and fetches a can of purified water. She helps him drink every last drop, her whole body aching as she watches him suffer.

His eyes slip closed shortly after, and Barbara has to keep telling herself he’s only sleeping. Exhaustion coils around her muscles, and she collapses against the wall beside him. He slumps heavily against her shoulder. Barbara freezes at the contact, but she doesn’t push him away. He needs what rest he can get, and it’s easier to tell he’s breathing this way.

Her eyes drift back toward the coffee table. Did he start using again because of her? Had he even stopped? Did the pain of his burns tempt him back? Lips trembling, she shakes away her thoughts and listens to the sound of his breathing. She sighs, hoping that what she did for him will help at least a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed the new chapter! 
> 
> It was such a pain getting the pacing of this right, but I like it pretty well. 
> 
> Deacon mentions in game that he used to use chems, so I wanted to explore that a little. He never says when he used, but it made sense to me that it was probably during his gang years and possibly beyond that. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading.
> 
> Comments/kudos are loved and appreciated!


	5. Author's Note

Hey Guys.

Like I mentioned on Nach, I'm taking a hiatus so I can plan out all my WIPs so I can give y'all the best story possible. These are by no means abandoned. I'll be back, and they will be finished! Promise! Thanks for all your kind words and support. I appreciate them more that words can say! <3


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